When I finally pull away, we’re both out of breath, our chests heaving with the effort of dragging precious air into our lungs. I tilt her face up more as I loom over her like a god with his toy, my thumbs smearing her eye makeup across her temples. Then I move to her mouth, the pad of my thumb pressing on the swollen pillow of her lower lip and dragging it to the side as though smearing imaginary lipstick. I like her lips natural, though. I like to see them change from pale pink to cherry red from my bruising kisses. She’s always gorgeous, but like this, she’s a work of art.
“My pet is such a beautiful disaster,” I muse.
“I’m not your anything,” she bites out.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I rip her tank in front enough to expose her tits with their luscious protruding nipples. My mouth is dying to suck and nibble on them, but it’s another thing I’m holding off on till later.
I spin her to face the mirror and shove the elastic waistband of her skirt down to pool around her heels. “Keep your hands on the barre and your back arched,” I say as I push between her shoulder blades and pop her hips back a little to get a nice curve in her body and her pussy presented to me. “Yeah, just like that with your legs together.”
The lips of her sex are soft and bare and glistening with arousal, peeking out from between her thighs and begging for my touch. I use my index finger to spread her juices, then probe her, rimming the entrance to her pussy and smirking when she clenches down on the tip of my digit.
“Oh God,” she gasps. “Please.”
A couple of weeks ago we finally had the birth control and clean test discussion. Not having to worry about condoms is convenient when you’re role playing that you don’t give a shit about someone, but that’s not the best part. Feeling Emi bare is a sensory ambrosia I can’t describe. It’s like having every good sensation ever created squeezing my cock. I’d never gone without condoms before her, and honestly, I’m glad. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve had any kind of “first” when it comes to sex. Sharing this one with Emi just feels right.
Unable to wait any longer, I grab my dick and rub the head along the seam of her pussy, lubing it up as I push inside. Once I’m notched at her entrance, I hold onto her shoulder and drive all the way home. She cries out and I roar, both of us swamped with the pleasure of finally being joined in the most carnal sense. I don’t waste time letting her adjust or holding still until the pressure of my building orgasm wanes. I pull back and sink back in, pistoning my hips faster and faster.
“Yes,” I hiss. “So fucking tight. Like a goddamn vise.”
The slap of flesh against flesh is music to my ears, as are her moans and unintelligible words spilling from her lips. Our gazes lock in the mirror and I know that our game is now obsolete. Neither of us cares anymore to keep up the pretense, we’re both too lost in the feel of my body invading hers.
I suddenly need to be face-to-face with her, need to feel her, skin to skin. Pulling out, I yank my shirt over my head, not even bothering to unbutton the damn thing, and toss it somewhere behind me. I spin her around and bring our chests together, loving how the stiff peaks of her nipples feel on my chest. Hoisting one of her legs onto my hip, I bend at the knees to line myself up with her entrance and then straighten, impaling her with my thick cock.
Her head drops back on a shout of “ohGodyes” as I fuck into her again and again. The ends of her hair tickle my forearm where it’s banded around her waist for support, but I need her focus back on me. I need to be able to see her eyes and know that she’s seeing me now and not some nameless assaulter.
“Look at me, Emi.” Slowly, she lifts her head and meets my gaze. She’s so fucking beautiful. Flushed cheeks, heavy lids over glazed eyes, puffy lips…and she’s all mine. “Good girl. Keep your eyes on me, just like that.”
“Feels s-so good,” she cries out between the force of my thrusts. “Gonna…come…”
“Right there with you, baby. I’m right fucking there. Come for me.”
Fall for me.
My heart squeezes in my chest as the thought slams through me at the same time our climaxes hit us like freight trains. Waves of white-hot pleasure crash over me, and my muscles bunch with every jet of come I shoot deep into Emi’s body, marking her as mine with every drop. I hold her close, supporting her through the aftershocks making her tremble in my arms.
When she finally droops against me with a depleting exhale, I force myself to pull out, severing our physical connection. I cup the side of her face and place a gentle kiss on her lips.
“You okay?” Sometimes I wonder if she ever gets sick of me asking her this, but I don’t care. Her well-being, both physically and emotionally, is the most important thing to me. That would be true if we were in a strictly vanilla relationship, so it goes without saying that it’s even more on my mind whenever we have a play session.
A lazy smile spreads across her face, reminding me of someone on really good pain meds. “That was so hot.”
“I completely agree,” I say, kissing her one last time. “Let’s go get cleaned up. Can you stand on your own?”
She nods once with confidence. “Totally.” I start to let her go but catch her to me again when her knees buckle. “Whoa,” she giggles. “Then again, maybe not.”
“Not a problem, princess, I got you.”
I sweep her up into my arms, and she sighs, tucking her head into my neck. “My hero.”
Another pang in my chest in the vicinity of my heart. I want to be her hero more than anything, along with her occasional villain. But telling her any of that now runs the risk of chasing her off, so I’m still holding my cards close to the vest.
Carrying her down the hall, I bring her into the women’s locker room and set her down where she can brace herself on a sink while I start one of the showers. Once I’m sure the water is a good temperature, I get rid of what little clothes we have left and get us under the gloriously warm spray.
I take my time soaping her up with my hands while admonishing my cock for wanting more of her so soon. She tries reaching for it at one point, but I lightly knock her hand away. “Behave. Just let me take care of you right now.”
She pouts and makes some kind of harrumph noise but settles into the pampering easily enough. I’ve never done this with or for a woman before, and as I begin lathering her hair with shampoo and massaging her scalp, a deep sense of pride and contentment spreads through me. It makes me feel good to take care of her, to show her how cherished she is. Emi’s come to mean a hell of a lot to me, and I try to let her know with my actions where I’m unable to use my words.
“I’ve been wondering something,” she says as I’m rinsing the soap from her long hair.
“Shoot.”
“I know you said before that there’s no secret trauma in your past or anything, but have you ever tried to figure out why the forced fantasies are your thing?”
“Definitely. For a long time, it bothered the hell out of me and I psychoanalyzed myself to death over it. But I think it’s not as complex as I was first making it out to be.”
“Why do you think it is?”
“From the time I was little, my main identifier has always been ‘good.’ I told you that my mom moved back to Texas to be with family, but they shunned her when she showed up with child and without a husband. It was just me and Mama against the world.”
“Seriously? Austin, that’s awful.”
“Not for me—I’d only ever had my mom, so I never felt that loss—but I saw how sad it made her. Always knowing of the reasons to celebrate or mourn but never being allowed to do any of it with the rest of her family. I decided at a really young age to do everything I could to make up for that loss by being the best son I could be.
“I always helped my mom out, whether it was around the house, at her dance studio, or just doing well in school. She even called me her Mini Hero, and I guess that kind of shaped who I was at my core. As a teen and even during college, I played the role of the good g
uy, especially with girls. I was either charming them or listening to their problems and offering advice or support.
“Then I became a firefighter, which means I’m automatically perceived as heroic, whether I’m seen pulling someone from a fire or just walking in a store with one of my CFD shirts on.”
“That must be a lot of pressure.”
“Most of the time, it’s fine. I like being the good guy, I like helping people. But yeah, it can be a lot of pressure to keep that up constantly. Playing the villain for a little while is like giving myself a rest. There’s freedom in being the bad guy who only cares about myself and what I want. Sometimes I think that I do as many good things as I can to atone for the part of me that likes doing the bad things.”
Emi turns around and slides her hands up my chest to lock them around the back of my neck. “Lucky for us, I happen to really enjoy those bad things.”
“Princess, that’s the understatement of the year, right there.” I take her mouth for a sensual kiss that quickly turns into a scorcher. “How about we finish cleaning up here and head back to my place for round two? No games this time, though. I have too many things I want to do to you that my darker self can’t have.”
“I’m definitely up for round two. And if you’re incredibly lucky, I might wake you up in the morning with round three.”
I groan just thinking of all the ways she might make good on that promise. “Then let’s go. The faster we get to sleep, the faster you can make that happen.”
We laugh and have fun teasing each other, finishing our shower as we build anticipation for the moment when we’re behind the closed door of my apartment and I can make her dirty all over again. Wash, rinse, and repeat.
Chapter Twelve
Emi
I’ve planned a surprise outing for Austin today, and as I stand here waiting for him to arrive, my stomach is in knots. I have no idea how this is going to go over, and I’m hoping I didn’t overstep in assuming this is something he’ll enjoy.
We haven’t had a lot of time together the past two weeks since that amazing night in my studio. There’s been plenty of texts and phone conversations and even a couple of stolen quickies—late night at the fire station and lunchtime in my office—but that’s about it. He’s been busier than normal with P4H gigs on his nights off, and during the day he’s been helping his dad with some home improvement projects around the house. On top of that, he’s had several hard shifts at the station. He won’t give me details because he refuses to burden me with the same emotional toll, but he does tell me when he’s had difficult calls. And lately, I can hear the exhaustion in his voice despite him brushing it off or flat-out denying he’s anything other than great.
Austin’s very nature is to give of himself. He doesn’t know how to be any other way. If someone around him, whether friend or stranger, seems to need help, he jumps in to do whatever he can. No hesitation, no second thoughts, and never any regrets. I’ve seen him pay for a woman’s groceries when she didn’t have enough, and heard from Jane about the time he gave his winter coat to a homeless man shivering in an “L” station alcove.
But the problem with always giving is that eventually there’s nothing left. He needs to take time for himself, to do something he enjoys and recharge his battery, which is why I’ve orchestrated today’s outing. I made some calls and set everything up. His only job was to get himself to Northpoint Marina in Winthrop Harbor.
I see his truck pull in, and my belly does a series of pirouettes. I’m both excited to see him and worried this was a lot better of an idea in my head, but it’s too late to back out now. He walks toward me with a huge grin, both dimples winking at me. He’s in a pair of khaki shorts, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with a firefighter emblem and the saying “Where my hose at?” on it that makes me laugh. Like always, I feel instantly lighter when I see him, as if I could float away and dance in the clouds.
“Hey there, handsome,” I say.
“Damn, you’re a sight for sore eyes, Emi.”
He brings his hands up to cup my face and kisses me breathless. I cling to his arms, loving how his muscles shift beneath my fingers, and lose myself in the reverent way his tongue strokes mine. For as little as I’ve seen him lately, he pulls away too soon for my liking and I don’t bother to stop the groan of complaint.
“My thoughts exactly,” he says, tracing my lower lip with his thumb. “Say the word and I’ll take you back to my place. My dad doesn’t need me today. We can spend the whole day in bed.”
I smile and nip his thumb before I pull his hand down to twine our fingers together. “As lovely as that sounds, I’m going to take a raincheck. I have plans for us.”
“What plans should I be grateful for that has you looking like you’re about to go sailing?”
“I do?” Laughing, I look down at my white shorts, Toms, and navy halter top and mentally shrug. I suppose it’s a bit nautical, but it wasn’t intentional. Maybe because it’s paired with my French braid. I normally don’t wear my hair this way, but it’ll prevent the lake wind from whipping it around.
“Wait,” he says, scanning the area with a hint of panic on his face, “are we going sailing? Shit, do you have a gigantic yacht or something?”
My father does own a gigantic yacht, but I’d never suggest we take it. I know my family’s wealth makes him uncomfortable, plus that would require him meeting my father, which I want to avoid for as long as possible.
“No,” I reassure him as I pull him toward the dock. “Stop worrying and follow my lead for a change.”
“I’d follow you just about anywhere, princess.”
I feel a blush steal into my cheeks and tell myself not to look into the statement. He’s a man, and men say flirty things they don’t mean all the time. Austin is especially flirty—it’s part of his natural charm—but recently some of his normal come-ons are missing their usual light tone. They’re tinged with a hint of realness, something that wasn’t there when we first started seeing each other, and each time it makes me wonder all manner of things I have no right to wonder.
I lead him down the dock until we get to The Dreamer. She’s a decent-sized charter boat and the pride and joy of her owner.
“Nice boat,” Austin says, clear appreciation in his voice as he looks her over.
“I’m glad you think so. Come on.” As we board, the sound of male laughter floats to us on the wind. “Hellooooo,” I call out. “Permission to come aboard, captain.”
Two people emerge from the enclosed captain’s room: one a slight-in-stature man with thinning black hair, and the other a barrel-chested Chicagoan with a white buzz cut.
“Pop?” The look of confusion on Austin’s face means his dad was true to his word and didn’t let on why he didn’t need his son’s help on the house today.
“There’s my son,” Glen Massey says proudly as he envelops Austin in a bear hug that would make me worry for his ribs were he not an incredibly fit man. Then the older man turns to me. “And I finally get to put the beautiful face with the voice. Emi, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
I brace myself to get epically squished, but he’s surprisingly gentle. I return his hug and say, “The pleasure is all mine, Glen. I’m so glad you could make it.”
Austin looks from me to his dad and back again. “Somebody wanna fill me in on what’s going on here?”
“Austin, meet my uncle, Martin Bissett; captain of The Dreamer and owner of Trout Master Charters. Uncle Martin, this is Austin Massey, one of Chicago’s finest firefighters and lifelong fishing enthusiast.”
Extending his hand, Austin says, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Emi speaks very highly of you.”
My uncle smiles and shakes Austin’s hand enthusiastically with both of his. “My niece speaks very highly of you, too. As does your father.”
When Austin levels me with an arched brow and a big old explain yourself expression, I fill in the holes for him. “You and your dad have been working so hard on his house lately,
and I thought you could probably use a day off. And since you told me how much you both like fishing, I asked my uncle if he would take us out on the lake.”
Martin throws his hands up. “And I said yes!” He laughs in delight, which is pretty much my uncle’s default setting. “Glen and I have been enjoying each other’s company for the past hour, and he’s told me many funny stories of you and your friends getting into trouble.”
Austin groans playfully. “Thanks, Pop. You’ve been sabotaging me before I even get the chance to make a good first impression.”
Glen huffs out a hearty chuckle. “Don’t worry, son. When Martin gets a look at your shitty fishing skills, you’ll be sabotaging yourself.”
A round of male posturing and smack talk commences. It’s oddly fascinating and highly entertaining. It’s like watching rams headbutt each other on Animal Planet. “All right, old man,” Austin says to Glen, “let’s put your money where your mouth is. A hundred bucks says Emi and I catch more fish than you and Martin.”
The older men’s eyes light up. They exchange a look and some form of male telepathy, and before I can talk sense into my misguided boyf—uh, lover, the three have agreed and sealed the deal with gentleman handshakes.
Minutes later, Martin has us on the open water of Lake Michigan, headed out to find the best spot for our impromptu competition. The boat is built specifically for several people to man about a dozen poles in the open area at the back, and the captain’s helm is in a little room in the middle with tinted windows. Martin has the door propped open so he can be a part of our conversation, and we have fun talking and laughing as Glen and my uncle recount funny stories from Austin’s and my childhoods in an attempt to utterly embarrass us.
When we finally set anchor at a spot Martin promises as one of the best for Chinook and Coho salmon, the game is on. Martin sets up all twelve poles and lets the lines out so that they don’t get tangled with each other. Then we draw an imaginary line down the middle of the boat and take to our sides.